


fractured

by scripttura



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horrortale (Undertale), Fluff, Horror, Other, Romance, Slight hints of smut, oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2020-01-11 02:02:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18420558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scripttura/pseuds/scripttura
Summary: it’s odd , isn't it ? that you can remember you’ve forgotten something without even remembering what it was .





	fractured

**Author's Note:**

> horrortale or horror based sans the skeleton , who goes by the name _acri_ .  
> i'll add snippets and one - shots to this as i feel . you may request , but these will not be connected unless stated as such .
> 
>  **EDIT** : a repost , from one ao3 account to this one , i'm working on moving all of my works to this older / main account !

you think he holds you like something he might break.

 

not on purpose, of course. he's long since stopped trying to sand down the jagged edges you bare, just as you've stopped trying to unmystify the crevices in his facade. it works, and when he finds you broken apart in too many pieces to count, crying and alone in the dark of his room, he pulls you close, hums an achingly familiar tune he can't recognize until you calm; and you? why, you've learned to not question the tone of his voice when he pulls you from the windows, the intense set of his eye when he watches you from his stand, the way, when he lumbers home, covered in blood with dinner served, that you best eat or you won't for days after.

 

and yet, he would never purposefully break you. not since the moment you found missing pieces of yourselves in the other, splintered, like looking into a broken mirror.

 

he saw in you the ghost of a creature he claims long dead. so much so, he chose a new name, bear fit for the ax he holds dear like a lover.

 

in him you saw a reason; something to keep hope for, moving forward in this world, two feet first for what little smiles he had left to give.

 

still, when he holds you, arms wrapped around your frame, trembling from thoughts you can't escape, he is careful. you love him for that, even if he could never hurt you more than your own heart, than the frostbite of snowdin itself, creeping slow into you until it killed, piece by piece, all you were. one day, you think, you might just be a slab of meat. left to rot in the confines of this house, for him to return to, hold like a corpse to his frame. or one day, he might take you to his shed, where he butchers all of his meat.

 

" snap out of it. " 

 

you do. head tilts up from the confine of a shoulder, eyes too dry to ever glisten again, catch that swollen red eye of his. small but dark-hued, like old blood (he is present, he is considerate). thin, hard phalanges that threaten to break with too much force, sharp and jutting at the joints, curl into your hair, and you shake until you don't.

 

" sorry. " you apologize, but you both know there's nothing to apologize for.

 

it's okay, says the way his eye grows, gentle, pupil dilating.

 

it's okay, says the card of fingers through snarls of tangled hair.

 

it's okay, says the way he lets you tuck head back against him, breathing in the way he smells. not of blood, of ash (dust), of so much terror you refuse to comprehend. but of ice, cold and crisp of a winter's night, sharp in the lungs; or pine nettle, shifting underfoot, sap stuck to your fingers, cloyed together; or, maybe, the smell of bone, like cockatiel dust and chalk.

 

it's okay, he says, in not so many words.

 

and he holds you until you can breathe easy again against him. nestled between his legs, pressed to his chest, a hand fisted in torn shirt loosening, the other against your own. he never stops carding through hair, knee supporting the small of your back, freehand slowly, reaching, to tangle with yours.

 

you don't need words with him. neither of you do. not since he found you splayed in the snow and heaving, but cradling to chest something so precious; not since you found him with hand in broken eye and such hunger that yet, even for all his years of a facade, you saw. you saw that apology, deep-rooted, up to the words he rumbled with the heft of an ax,  _it's nothing personal._

 

the two of you don't need words, so when he reaches for your hand, you ease it against his clothes until his sharp fingers tangle with yours. you've been cut by them too many times to count, and every time, he laps at the blood with his eye on yours. even now, he brings fingers up, to a closed mouth, and presses teeth to white knuckles. you try to smile, and it comes, small and just for him in the cold dead of his room.

 

" it's cold, " you say simply, knowing his answer before it already rumbles through ribs, that eye turning brighter, wider.

 

he opens his mouth, and as he slips a finger of yours inside, grip moving to hold wrist ever so like porcelain that might break, he speaks all the same.

 

" ... i'll warm you up. "


End file.
